


Like Prayers

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-30
Updated: 2005-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:25:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not quite the October 31, 1981 you think you know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Prayers

It's impossible not to be aware of the magic. Nightfall hums with it, a secretive whisper, doubt and possibility, an obscene murmur to set the most placid soul on edge. Doors are locked and extra spells cast, charms and hexes, wards and protections. There's a reckoning to be had – a sly, seductive, pewter-curl of magic that stalks and threatens – telegraphed in the shiver of a mocking breeze.

As Voldemort's sense of triumph grows, there's a rustle of darkness that few can ignore. Wind-branch-fingertips scratch at windows; curtains are drawn, dangers masked. Newspapers burn in sitting-room fires, ink-smudged warnings reduced to an ash that cannot convict. Two fall – but tea is made, eggs are cooked, bedtime stories read to luckier children.

His defeat, when it comes, feels nothing like victory and everything like absence. For one, single moment, nobody breathes.

~*~

. . . _there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion_ . . . Remus pauses, his finger a bookmark, frowning as something changes. He feels it -- a rushing outward, the urgent escape of thought and motive as the weight of conviction rushes in. He's slamming the door behind him before he can think to be worried.

The house is destroyed.

Enough of the secret is broken to allow him to find them.

The village is shuttered, drawn in on itself, every doorway locked and barred. No home-light spills into the streets, but there's moon enough to see by, and the acrid scent of fractured defiance directs him better than signposts could.

Sirius is already there, kneeling in the rubble, James gathered awkwardly in his lap. There's an awful sound on the wind – a harsh, broken noise that Remus doesn't understand, and he wishes it would stop because he can't think while someone suffers so. "Quiet," he whispers, and he's angry – furious – striding toward Sirius with his hand balled into a fist. He'll hit him if he has to because this can't be their ending. This can't be James in Sirius' arms, with splintered glasses and pain-washed face. This can't be Sirius spilling sobs like prayers – pleas of the faithful, mass for the soul of their fallen boy-king. This can't be what's asked of him, to kneel in the dirt with the pressure of grief like a storm in the spaces between his ribs, beating against the fragile skin at his throat.

But Sirius lifts his face, and in the shadows of anger and dirt along his jaw, Remus reads the truth of it. This is their all, a finish, a beginning – the place they'll exist 'til their own ends arrive. He leans against Sirius, and as their foreheads touch feels the vibration of grief meeting grief. A whisper of memory struggles – a bird's-wing remembrance, too soon to bring comfort when James lies between them, eyes still open, staring into a protection they could not give. "Can't be," Remus whispers, and reaches out with a single finger, knuckle to cheekbone, life against death. He closes the fingers of his other hand around Sirius' elbow. "Lily?" he asks hoarsely.

Sirius shakes his head. "I don't know. But she can't . . ."

Remus staggers to his feet and sways for a second, swallowing bile and craving inertia. He wishes stillness could repair the wreckage spread beneath his feet, but stumbles forward into knowledge, resignation. Every step hurts. His senses are confused – the air tastes dandelion yellow, and the scent of smoke resonates beneath his fingernails. Fires flare violet-blue in the shell of his ear, and he searches desperately, scrabbling with his hands, lifting what he's able and throwing aside the detritus of once-entwined lives.

He can't remember Lily's face.

When he finds her at last, beneath roof tiles and a spill of broken glass, he knows her by the fourteen freckles that dust her nose. He crouches beside her – the grief behind his knees creaks, protests – brushes hair and dust and soot from her cheek to search for a smile he half-recalls. Agony stares back at him, _Avada Kedavra_ painted upon the open canvas of her body, youth erased. He wishes (searing thought, silver-hot, blinding) that death could be more forgiving, that even spells to stop the heart could soothe and soften the body as it bowed. He reaches out, closes her eyes, tries to imagine this is only a nightmare from which she'll wake, James' hand in her own.

If only, if only. His heart beats the pain of that wish.

At first the hiccoughing sobs of a frightened child seem merely grief given spectral voice. But then – a bewildered, desperate, infant plea and he's scrabbling again, shifting debris until there, protected (rafters, bookshelves) he sees him, chubby hand closed around a blanket, shaking. A tear-stained face turns up to meet him, a tiny body shivers with cold. "Daddy." Sob and tremble. _Impossible_.

Remus breaks beneath the weight of such bereavement. "Uncle," he whispers. "Uncle Remus." He scoops him up – child's face to grown man's shoulder, the trusting curve of Harry's arm a gift, a burden, the cause of the tears upon his face, baptism in the name of the father.

~*~

"So we kill him."

Sirius voices the thought, and the blood-red words of anger that have passed between them dim to whispers, aching lies that shiver. Remus nods, fingers wound tight in Sirius' sleeve. Such a strange place to find absolution, this – the crumpled folds of beaten leather bunched awkwardly in his palm.

The air is laced with diesel fumes. Remus looks up into the yawning mire that swallowed Hagrid, Harry, torpor, bike. He ducks his head and behind closed eyelids can see the snarling vehemence of Sirius' conviction – "He's ours now. _Our_ boy. Tell Dumbledore that and make it _clear_."

How his pride had surged – how he loved this mercurial bastard – and the emotion had knocked Remus clean to his knees. Anger rose, warring with faith – snapping, livewire, broken belief that hissed and conquered better impulses – _this was yours to prevent; how could you, how could you?_ – filthy words of grief and rage. He'd raised his wand, demanded answers.

Spy.

 _Spy._

And Sirius had crumpled, crouched beside him, caught his hand and pressed Remus' wand-tip against his own throat. "Do it," he'd whispered, eyes too bright, the smoke-shift-grey of January loss. "Do it, or listen, either way."

~*~

They weave a canopy of protection over the bodies. A phoenix of charms rises into the air, touching their faces with stained-glass light.

~*~

Standing in Peter's kitchen, the brimming rubbish bin vile with rot, they realize their foolishness and catch their breath. It's no eleven-year old boy they seek, homesick for weeks on end, sleeping late on Sundays, rat-faced and laughing over potatoes and beef. They stare at the newspapers piled in corners, the empty cupboards, sewing needle, untidy spill of candle wax, ink upon the table.

They pace, and Remus trembles with the force of this unfamiliar transformation; snap of memory, body intact. "Where would he be?" he asks, grimacing at this impotence. Anger laps like acid at his bones, leaching his strength. He kicks at a chair and thinks of fizzing whizbees, thrice-shared homework, butterbeer spills.

Lily is dead. James is gone.

"We'll find him." There's menace in Sirius' voice, unwavering purpose, and he grabs Remus' chin, forces him to meet his eyes. "We're mapmakers," he whispers, and Remus manages a faltering smile despite the liquorice-bitter swirl of irony against his tongue. Cartography lurks in the whorls of his fingertips. Tracking hovers in the arch of Sirius' palm.

They search for parchment, quill and ink, bend their heads and speak their wishes.

~*~

Owls and firecalls, clandestine magic. An empty street and Remus can feel the ripple of hidden protections. They've been understood. Others have heard.

Peter stands, head flung back, studying the black-wire web of telephone lines strung against the sky. His wand's in his hand, and Remus isn't fooled by the slip-wrist-tremble of the other man's fingers. No amateur this; no simple-faith, fourth-of-four, honest friend. Remus stares at the muddy soles of Peter's shoes, the frayed-edge-tear of his trousers above them. When did they lose him?

"Peter," barks Sirius.

Remus lifts his head, shifts his feet, adjusts his stance. He stares down the line of his arm, his wand.

When Peter turns it's a graceless action – he didn't dance with the bride, never mastered Quidditch. As he stumbles, trips, rights himself and laughs delightedly, Remus wonders if it's possible he's drunk. There are stains on his robes, and his hair needs cutting; dun-coloured curls hang over his collar. "S—Sirius . . . R—Remus . . . my old friends."

Sirius snarls, whip-crack of hatred. "Murderer," he whispers, and the sound's an infinite, figure-eight curl.

"Murderer?" Peter grins, slack-faced and happy. "I suppose I am, but . . ."

Remus sees them –Arthur, Emmeline, Gideon, Elphias – stepping out of doorways, raising their wands. He sees Moody, Auror-clad, sees the ink-dark blue of Law Enforcement robes.

". . . it had to be done, Padfoot. _Had_ to be done, lest the whelp grow up to be. . ."

There are no Unforgivables in the spells that kill him. He falls, sheared apart, and there's no relief.

~*~

Poppy Pomfrey's ten-stone person stops them where others have failed. "You wake that child and I will hurt you," she whispers, chin raised in indignation, her force of will an obstacle far beyond anything they thought they'd face. She drags her eyes over every inch of their crumpled appearance, and Sirius shuffles awkwardly. "You're exhausted," she concludes, and shakes her head as if it's only to be expected, as if they've tumbled in from late-night practice, trailing mud from the Quidditch pitch in their wake. "Chop, chop, off with those things and into bed if you please."

Sirius splutters a protest, but she raises an eyebrow and he quiets immediately. Remus stoops to hug her. There's familiar comfort in the bustle of her presence.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Lupin. Awful night," she murmurs, rubbing circles on his back until he pulls away. She smiles at him, touches his chin with one finger, and he notices loss in the lines beside her eyes. "Into bed now. You'll need your sleep. Baby to take care of. Quite the challenge."

He smiles wanly, nudges Sirius' elbow. There's a cradle by Poppy's desk, and they cross the room to peer at its secrets. Harry sleeps, whole but for the cut upon his forehead, and Remus wonders at the flush of dreams that play upon his face. "Peace that passes all understanding," he whispers, bewilderment a tempering force against grief that would claw him thought from thought.

Stretched on his back, sheets tangled at his waist, Remus stares at the familiar rafters above his head and begs for forgetfulness, the blessing of an infant's sleep. Exhaustion can't still the moments that play behind his eyelids, an endless loop. Fire and spellwork, death and hunting, ache of betrayal – his mind will not ease.

A rustle and shift across the room and Sirius is standing, shaking his head. "I can't," he says, grief another fractured note in the familiar discord of his voice. Remus extends a waiting hand.

And after such an absence, they wind their limbs about each other – so familiar this, a curve of spine beneath Remus' hand. A press of lips against Remus' forehead, confessions spill, and in their grief they're bound together, a genesis, a revelation.


End file.
